Rebecca breathed the gentlest of sighs as she watched Chris' hand rub across the face of that poor Brisbane player, Rizzydizzytellytubbie or whatever he was called.

Funny how Chris couldn't keep his hands off all these other blokes, but barely seemed interested in her.

She slipped her own hand down her banana yellow Juicy Couture trackydaks - even staying in and having a quiet night she was stylish - and let her hand rest on her mound, considering allowing her finger to travel those final few centimetres to what Caroline had so memorably described as her "thpecial thite" during their brief, yet magical affair.

The wisps of her remaining pubic hair tickled gently at the back of her wrist. She had the Chinese character for "opportunity" shaved there just a few days ago, in the hope of enticing Chris into a decent root for once.

But no, no luck. Even as she'd showed it to him, wearing her very best Myer's lingerie ($12.99 the set or just a fiver for the bra, 20 per cent off at the Chaddy shop if you buy something from the food hall) all he'd said was:

"I think they've missed a curl on the final stroke babes. Good calligraphy is so important in Chinese culture, even getting it a little bit wrong can change the whole meaning of the character. I think yours actually says 'devil's hole' now."

Cheers Chris. Thanks for that.

She decided against a girlyflog after all and concentrated on the footy. They showed the replay again and it really didn't look good. Even if he didn't gouge his eyes, he still shouldn't have had his hand there.

Geez, thought Rebecca, I could do with a good gouging. It was Saturday night, her boyfriend was away, she could just hit the clubs, pick up some young stud, fuck him senseless, then come home. But her being who she was, that wasn't possible. She'd be recognised. She suddenly realised she had become trapped, a prisoner of her own fame. She was the Princess Diana of the footy world.

Nah, no one night anonymous root for her. Instead she'd have to wait until tomorrow when Chris returned from Brisbane. Bloody Brisbane. He'd been shocked to learn she wouldn't come up with him.

"But babes, I need you there," he'd moaned.

So tomorrow he'd come back and he'd want a root and she'd lie there like a particularly dispirited starfish left stranded on a slimy rock at a shitty beach while he pumped away on top of her like a big boring jackhammer, counting every bloody stroke in the same tone as the talking clock Telstra used.

It was all just so vanilla. And to make it worse, he'd whinge endlessly about being 'targeted' by the umpires even though everyone in the world knew he always got away with so much more.

God. How depressing. At least she had Brendan's boob job on Monday to look forward to. He might be a big oaf, but he was nice enough and she could see he was genuine in his desire to become a half man, half woman, like that soccer player Fernando Torres.

Then it hit her. An image, a mental picture that instantly got her wetter than a Sunday arvo in Tassie.

Brendan, on her chair in her office, his top half resplendent with large yet firm breasts modelled exactly on Scarlett Johansson's while below, his enormous rigid manhood.

She saw herself astride him, riding him like a Melbourne Cup winner, a man inside her yet beautiful womanly breats in front to caress and nuzzle as if they were those of the great goddess Eros herself. The best of both worlds.

Rebecca's finger shot straight to her pleasure organ and it took only a few twirls until she peaked with a most magnificent orgasm. She kept the thought in her head and her hand down her pants and went for it until continously until two hours later, she lay spent on the couch, panting and almost teary with pure pleasure.

She'd need to get the steam cleaner out and give the cushion covers the once over before Chris got home, such was the musky stench of her vigorous self-love. But no matter, it was worth it. She couldn't wait for Monday.

Across Melbourne, Sam was also having a Saturday night wankathon. But instead of a highly charged erotic fantasy, she was doing it while watching videos of American soldiers abusing detainess at Abu Ghraib.

"Come on," she'd snarl as a rough-hewn Marine from Kentucky instered an electric baton into the anus of a terrified teenage prisoner, "Fucken give it to him harder!"

And with every new depravity, she ran the hairbrush over her own scalded and raw sex parts, trying to force one more black shudder from their tortured depths.

Such was the intensity of her furious masturbation, and the volume of the sickening footage she was watching, that she did not hear the eerie call that drifted across the cold night air.

If she had, she would have done well to pay it heed.

On the very outskirts of the city, where Collingwood players steal in the darkest of nights to tend their ice labs, the Dewosaurus had climbed a telephone pole and emitted the hunting cry of his kind.

Blood will be spilt soon. Sam's blood.